


Helping Hands

by braedymck



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Season/Series 02, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yearning, not mentioned but it matters to me, synonymns etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28367730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braedymck/pseuds/braedymck
Summary: Jon practices an exercise in humility and Martin offers him a hand.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 30
Kudos: 162





	Helping Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really on a kick for those Season-2-Jon-Mr-Paranoia-McShambles-realizes-his-love fics so I figured I'd add one to the pile.

Fill the kettle about halfway.

Turn the stove top on high and place the kettle over the flame.

Grab two mugs from the top left cabinet - the green one with the chip in the handle and the white one with the chip on the base.

Grab the earl grey tea bags, the box of sugar cubes, and the milk from the fridge.

Shut off the fire beneath the whistling kettle and pour the steaming water into each mug, a bit below the brim.

Gently place a tea bag in each.

Three sugar cubes for the white mug and a good amount of milk.

Just a splash of milk for the green one.

Steep the tea for two and a half minutes while returning the supplies to the cabinets.

Toss the tea bags when they’re finished.

Grab the mugs.

Take a deep breath.

...Followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

Maybe he’ll be in a good mood today?

Martin closes his eyes for a second, breathing in the floral aroma of the freshly made tea. He slowly rolls his shoulders backward, tilting his head gently side to side. Another long breath. Another long sigh. The moments right before afternoon tea are both the most exciting and most dreadful part of his day. He’s never sure if the anxiety in his stomach comes from the eagerness to see Jon again or from the fear of what Jon will say when he sees _him_. Some days, Martin’s optimistic. Other days... A realist.

Steeling himself, Martin turns from the counter and carries the mugs to the doorway of the breakroom. The short hallway to Jon’s office has become an embodiment of terror as of late. The dimly-lit grey-green walls, narrow and cramped. The hideous brown patterned carpeting, permanently marked with footprints from previous bad encounters at Jon’s door. And, of course, the door itself.

The window on the door was large. Strangely, intimidatingly large. It gave Martin a creeping feeling that you could clearly see whoever was in the office at any place in the hallway. You could so clearly spy on their every move in each corner of the small room. And they could so very clearly see you.

Martin had learned how to navigate that feeling, to an extent. He knows the spots on the floor that allow the softest footsteps; he knows to walk in the dimmest lights right up against the wall. He often wonders if he’s trying to placate Jon’s fear of being watched, or if he’s trying to quell his own. He often wonders if he makes it worse.

Still standing in the doorway, he listens. (He’s learned his lesson about trying to sneak about with tea when Jon’s in the middle of recording.) He listens for that low, sharp-voweled intonation that he has come to secretly relish. It stirs such a giddy heat in the center of Martin’s chest. Jon’s words are biting, but his tone has such a deep, captivating vivaciousness, like a vivid dark magenta. It prompts the hairs on Martin’s arm to stand on end. As much as he’d like to just collapse into the doorway and lose himself in the resonance of Jon’s deep baritone, he awaits a cue to tiptoe to the office. He listens.

The gentle hum of the lights above him.

The soft tick of the clock on the wall behind him.

The quiet murmur of the air conditioning from the vents below him.

And from Jon’s office...

...Is that crying?

  
  


Yes. Yes, that’s definitely crying. A whimper, really, but with great distress. It sounds like... It sounds like a woman’s voice. It’s pitiful and persistent and Martin has absolutely no idea what to do.

Martin remembers suddenly that someone was supposed to give a live statement today, though he thought they were to come in the late morning. Was that her? Did she come late? Or has she just been here for that long? Was she okay? Did Jon--

Oh god, did Jon make her cry??

Martin has to help. Or, at least, he has to figure out what’s going on so he can then figure out how to help. He treads steathfully over to Jon’s door, pressing his back against the wall and peering into the vast window with as little of himself visible as possible. He tilts his head at just the right angle (a well practiced angle, to be honest) to get a blurry but decent image of Jon and the visitor at his desk.

The visitor, as Martin had guessed, is a young woman who is currently sobbing quietly into her shirt sleeves, wiping her eyes and nose with very clear embarrassment. Her knees shake lightly as she presses them firmly together. Martin feels a surge of pity for her. She looks so small and wrought with despair. He briefly debates offering up his tea for her, until he catches a glimpse of Jon.

Jon is, to put it lightly, looking incredibly uncomfortable with the situation. He has pushed himself as far away from his desk as short arms will allow, and he looks at the woman with wide staring eyes, full of confusion and panic. He tries to open his mouth to say something, and then quickly closes it again. He tugs at the collar of his shirt. He looks around the room, then back at her. He tries one more time to say something before the woman chokes out another audible sob.

“I’m sorry,” Martin hears her whisper beneath her sniveling. “It’s just-- it’s still so hard t-to talk about...”

“No-- Uh, i-it’s fine,” Jon says, the same confusion and panic in his eyes resounds in his voice as well. “I... I-I understand...”

“Would it be okay...” She wipes her eyes again. “I-I know this is strange, but... Would it be okay if I held your hand?”

Martin feels cold suddenly. 

There is a long, painful silence.

“Uh--” Jon eloquently replies.

“I _know_ it’s strange but--” The woman takes a shallow breath. “Physical contact. It helps me when I’m scared. It makes me feel... Grounded. Safe.”

Martin sees a whirlwind of emotions on Jon’s face. Still confusion, still panic, but now also... There was something behind it all. Was that sympathy? 

Jon remains stiff for a moment. Then Martin sees something change in his expression. Jon forces his shoulders to relax as he exhales, and he gingerly extends his hand to her. The woman takes it readily into her own and, immediately, her posture changes. 

Jon and Martin both watch as her breathing begins to slow. She closes her eyes and sits more comfortably back into her chair, letting her knees gently come apart and cease their tense shaking. She takes a very long, very slow, and very deep breath.

She sits quietly for a few more seconds.

Then she gradually opens her eyes and meets Jon with a small, appreciative smile. She squeezes his hand lightly and then releases him, beginning to pack her belongings. In a few moments, she stands, ready to go.

“Thank you.” She says softly to Jon. She then briskly walks to the door and Martin almost forgets to dart out of the way so she doesn’t catch him spying. Luckily, he dodges just in time and she doesn’t even notice him on her way out. Martin watches her walk with purpose down the hallway and out to the exit. 

He stands, a bit dumbfounded, for a second in the hall before he realizes Jon can probably see him and he slams himself against the wall again. He holds his breath for a moment, waiting to hear Jon bark his name, but nothing comes. Not even for a few seconds after that. Maybe Jon really hadn’t seen him?

Very slowly, Martin returns to his spying spot. As he peers in through the window, he sees Jon still at his desk, almost frozen. Jon’s hand remains extended in the same place the woman had left it. Jon stares at his unmoving hand with the strangest look on his face. His eyes... His eyes are different. They’re usually sharp and judgmental, throwing daggers or rolling condescendingly. They’re always busy, constantly looking, constantly watching. But now --

They seem... They seem fond.

Jon looks softly at his hand. A microscopic smile forms at the corner of his mouth.

And Martin is filled with jealous rage.

Martin’s face burns bright red as he grips the handles of the mugs almost tightly enough to shatter them completely. His jaw clenches and he feels his teeth grind painfully together. Involuntarily, he lets out a huff apparently loud enough for Jon to hear, because Jon’s head snaps to the doorway just as Martin storms back to the breakroom to collect himself.

\--------

Martin sits in the breakroom for 15 minutes, brooding. In the first five minutes, he thinks of all the nastiest things he could say to that woman that would _really_ tear her apart for coming in here and laying her dirty hands all over the Head Archivist. In the second five minutes, he reasons with himself that he’s probably overreacting a bit and she was probably very scared and desperately just needed some company, even if she chose the wrong company in his opinion. In the last five minutes, Martin fully accepts that he’s just jealous that she got to hold Jon’s hand. It hurts to admit. He almost wants to just start thinking of slimy nicknames for her again. Righteous indignation feels better than pathetic jealousy.

Both mugs of tea that sit before Martin on the breakroom table have probably gone cold. It doesn’t matter. Martin isn’t in the mood for tea anymore. And Jon wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. Jon probably would’ve loved to have tea with that _woman_ instead of Martin, since she basically _felt him up_ right there in his office which was _HIGHLY inappropriate--_

Martin shakes his head, scolding himself for such childish thoughts. He pushes the mugs away from him, secretly indulging in the sad scraping noise they make when sliding across the table, and he rests his head hands. He lets out a long, pitiful sigh.

“Martin?”

Martin jolts up and turns to face the sound. He sees Jon standing in the doorway.

“Uh-- J-Jon! Hi-- Ah, hello...” Martin waves to him awkwardly, suddenly very aware that Jon has caught him doing absolutely no work in the breakroom during a time where he should _really_ be doing some work. Martin swallows hard and tries to give Jon a convincing smile. It is... Likely less than convincing.

Jon looks nervously around the room for a second, as if he were looking for someone spying on him around a corner (oh, like Martin had done not half an hour ago? Add it to the list of things to feel guilty about.) Jon suddenly locks his gaze on the mugs in front of Martin.

“Oh! Did you make tea?” He starts toward Martin but then halts quickly to a stop, almost bashfully waiting for Martin to respond before moving any closer.

“Oh-- I, yeah. Um, well, it’s actually probably--” 

“Oh, yes-- good,” Jon then continues his quick walk over to Martin’s table. He snatches up the white mug and takes a long sip, apparently unfazed by how cold the tea most definitely is. He sighs into the mug with what sounds like relief.

Martin just stares at him, unsure of what is happening or how to handle all of his emotions. Jon probably sees this written clearly on his face because he immediately starts to stammer.

“Ah-- yes, thank you, Martin, for the, um-- for the tea...” Jon holds his mug tightly to his chest, tapping his slender brown fingers awkwardly on the ceramic.

“You’re... Welcome?” Martin is still awaiting a long reprimand for being lazy or the tea being ice cold or literally anything about his shortcomings not only as an employee of the Magnus Institute but also as a person--

But instead, Jon takes another sip and sits down stiffly across from Martin at the table. Martin folds his hands in his lap quickly and tries to sit up straight. Jon has never sat this close to Martin before. Surely, scrutiny is near.

“I... I just had the strangest interaction...” Jon starts, hesitantly. He runs his hand through his long hair, accidentally pulling out a few strands from his already messy half-bun. Martin desperately wills himself not to stare longingly at Jon as he slowly tucks those strands behind his ear. He does not succeed. 

“Oh?” Martin squeaks. Jesus Christ, is Jon seriously starting a _real_ _conversation_ with him about _this?_ While Martin is still coming down from his jealous rage, _and_ while Martin is slacking off in the break room _AND_ while Jon is doing... Well, _THAT_ with his hair? Martin briefly considers quietly getting up and fleeing the building without a word, but Jon immediately continues--

“Yes, I-- There was this woman...” Martin feels that same angry heat over his cheeks that he had just spent the last 15 minutes washing away. “She came in to give a statement -- bogus, all of it, by the way, started with major migraines and ended with a “mild substance addiction” to _vicodin_ \-- but the things she was seeing were really... They were really getting to her. And she kinda, uh, broke down after giving the statement. And I’m not very-- well, I’m sure you’ve noticed-- I’m not very _good_ at-- ah-- _comforting_ people--”

“Really.” Martin spits, already knowing where this story leads. His eyes fly wide open when he processes what he just said.

Luckily, Jon keeps talking right over him without any notice: “So I was just kind of sitting there, wondering what to do... And then she--” Jon cuts himself off, looking sheepishly down at his hands. “Well, she... S-she asked to hold my hand. Said it would ground her. Make her feel safe.” 

Martin gives a _heavy_ eye roll. 

Oh, SHIT-- did Jon see that?? Martin has GOT to get himself under control.

“And, I mean, I _did_ \-- I’m not so completely heartless to outright refuse to help a person when they ask like _that_ \--”

“You’re a hero.” _SHUT UP, GOD DAMMIT._

“And it just... Worked. For her. She... She calmed down immediately and just politely excused herself out. And that was the end of it. No more tears. Nothing.”

Martin did finally manage to bite his tongue at his last scathing remark, but it didn’t stop the white-hot rage coursing through his veins.

“And the crazy thing is... Well-- I just felt... I _felt_ \--”

Martin is seconds away from flipping the table.

“...Envy.”

Martin grabs the table and-- _Wait,_ what did he say?

Jon still looks at his hands, but with a wide-eyed look of wonder. Martin waits for him to go on, but he seems entranced. A bit of the rage dies down in Martin’s stomach, but not all of it. Just enough to ask: 

“...Envy?”

Jon looks up at Martin in a way that Martin has never seen before. His expression is raw: there’s sadness and there’s fear, but there’s also that look of wonder and maybe even a little--

“Yes. Envy. I _envied_ her at that moment. She had the courage to do something that... Something that I’ve never been able to do myself. She held all of that fear and all of that misery and she--” Jon closed his eyes and sighed. “She had the courage to ask for help.”

Martin just stares at him, still awkwardly gripping the table. 

The embers of his jealousy are stamped out by a force of pure shame and embarrassment. He had let his jealousy consume him so entirely that he had been blinded to the actual pain that Jon and the woman shared. 

He knows that humiliation is written plainly on his face. He reaches forward to grab his long-cold tea mug in an effort to look anywhere other than at Jon, who, to Martin’s relief, isn’t finished monologuing yet:

“I-I’ve been scared. A lot. Recently. Actually, for most of my life. But I always thought I could deal with it on my own. I always told myself that I was-- _overreacting_ , or I clouded my fears in skepticism, o-or I--” Jon swallows hard and looks down at his hands again. "Acted like kind of a prick to the people around me so they wouldn’t think I was such a coward.” He glances up at Martin but quickly looks back down. “But-- b-but, when I saw that woman... When I saw her, I don’t know, _own up_ to her fear-- _take control_ of it, in a way, I-- Well. I envied that.”

A long pause stretches between them.

Jon glances up at Martin again, maybe to check to see if he’s still listening. He is. Intently.

“So, I...” Jon looks Martin dead in the eyes, and he holds his gaze this time. “I want to ask for your help.”

Martin’s heart stops.

“I’m so... Afraid... All of the time...” Jon clutches his tea mug, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. “I want you to help me when I’m scared. Make me feel... Grounded. Safe.”

Martin feels his entire body ache for this man. He wants nothing more than to wrap him in his arms and lull him to peace every waking moment of the day. He smiles, feeling the prick of tears behind his eyes.

“Of course, Jon. Of course I’ll help you.”

Jon lets out a small, almost painful chuckle, like he’s holding back a sob. Yet, an unabashedly wide smile like Martin has never seen before spreads across his face.

Jon wipes at his eye quickly. “Thank you.”

Martin gives him the most earnest smile he can muster.

“Can I...” Jon’s face blushes a deep red. “Can I hold your hand?”

Time stops for a second, Martin is sure. 

In front of him, a still picture. 

A rail thin and tiny man, tucking a strand of long, salt-and-pepper hair behind his ear, smiles sweetly at Martin with a dark redness splotched over his ears, cheeks, and nose. There is such fondness in his eyes.

Martin blinks, quietly saving this memory forever in his mind. 

Time resumes, and Martin, with a heart-felt smile, extends his hand to Jon.

Jon takes it readily into his own, and both take a sharp breath before their postures change entirely.

Jon leans forward onto his elbows, sending his shoulders upward but letting his head hang loosely, opening his shoulder blades for deep, full-lung breaths. Some of his hair cascades down from his ear and back over his face, but he doesn’t touch it. He looks through it up to Martin, whose breathing stutters when he meets Jon’s eyes.

Martin also leans closer to Jon, resting on his elbows, but he pushes them out wide to allow his shoulders to relax while his hands meet Jon’s in the middle of the table. And Jon’s hands--

Jon’s hands are so small and so cold; they have blisters on the knuckles, calluses on his palms, and cracked, dry skin around his cuticles. His fingers are slender and bony, ending in torn but clean fingernails. His brown skin is dotted along his wrist with pale, circular scars that are indented slightly, and Martin thinks of how absolutely lovely his hands are. They are worn and tired, bruised and marked, but they are strong and they are Jon’s. And Martin holds them dearly.

Martin’s hands, however, are warm and large and pillow-soft and smell like his favorite apple-scented lotion. His nails are a bit chewed, as is the skin around them, but his fingertips are plush and gentle. He envelopes Jon’s hand with both of his own, making small, soothing circles with his thumbs. Jon’s grip on him is firm, and Martin returns it equally.

Jon lets out another small laugh, wiping at his eyes again before adding his free hand to the pile. Martin accepts it immediately, entwining their fingers in a tight embrace. Martin cherishes every rough texture, every small hair, every deep line etched into Jon’s hands, in almost disbelief of the scene playing out before him. As Jon’s palms gradually warm up, and then his fingertips, Jon becomes more and more relaxed. He watches the small movements of Martin’s thumbs through a half-lid gaze. A very quiet smile rests over his chin. His grip on Martin steadily loosens as Martin turns Jon’s hands over and begins a gentle massage on each.

With practiced movements (Martin had given his mother plenty of reassuring hand massages in his lifetime, whether she wanted them or not), Martin’s thumbs make their way to every nook of Jon’s petite hands, gently pressing, rubbing, and stretching the skin and lean muscles. And he absolutely delights in the small _hmms_ Jon makes when Martin rolls over a sensitive spot.

Martin watches Jon gently close and open his eyes with heavy-lidded blinks like the ocean tide. For once, Martin sees no fear behind his gaze. For once, Jon allows the world to continue on around him with no surveillance or inspection. For once, Jon seems... Completely at peace.

(And he is so, _so_ beautiful.)

A thought pops into Martin’s head as he makes sweeping strokes on the back of Jon’s hands. Just a half hour ago, Martin was certain that Jon couldn’t stand the sight of him. He was certain that Jon was going to rip him apart when he found him in the breakroom, moping and completely disregarding his work. And yet, Jon came to _him._ Bore his sole to him. Humbled himself to him. Asked for help from him. From _Martin_. Of all people. And now here Martin is, cradling Jon’s hands and stealing glances at his flushed cheeks as Jon occasionally peers at him through long, dark eye lashes. 

Not that he was _complaining_ , but there was definitely something Martin was missing.

“Can I ask--” Martin’s voice caught in his throat when Jon’s rich brown eyes met his own with a gentle curiosity.

“C-can I ask... Why? Uh, why _me_?”

A pause. Jon furrows his brow with genuine confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you come to _me_? Out of everyone?” Martin continues to rub circles over Jon’s knuckles, though he feels his hand grow slightly clammy. “I thought you couldn’t bear to be in a room with me, hah...” 

The attempt at a light-hearted half-joke falls _very_ flat. Jon’s hands go stiff, and Martin regrets saying anything. He squeezes Jon’s hands tightly, willing them to go back to the serenity they felt before.

Jon’s shoulders creep up toward his ears again as he looks shamefully downard. “Like I said, I know I’ve been... A bit of prick, as of late-- a-and I should apologize for that, I-I am-- I am truly sorry-- I was trying to... Ah, look I... I _am_ sorry.” He lets out a strained sigh. Martin squeezes his hand again and Jon looks up timidly. “But, uh, as for your question, Martin...” He purses his lips for a second. “Why would I go to anyone else?”

Martin’s grip on Jon’s hand falters. There is no air in his lungs. 

Jon does notice this. He squeezes Martin’s hands softly, as if to bring him back to life.

“You...” Martin can see the cogs in Jon’s brain turning slowly as he cautiously picks his words. “You have... Well, to some extent, you’ve already been trying to help. Your afternoon tea, the box of the biscuits I like in the cupboard that you restock bi-weekly, your insistence that I take breaks and actually consume food and water...” Jon’s fingers start to tremble lightly, but Martin holds them still. “But, also, you are... Kind. And-- ah... Caring. Maybe, um, one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”

Jon sounds completely out of breath. Martin isn’t sure if he’s breathing either. He sits on the edge of his seat, paralyzed. But their hands, both a little slick and warm and quivering now, remain firmly together.

“A-and I want to be around you. You are... You’re a comforting presence. A-a-and I want to _properly_ get to know you, since I’ve done a bang-up job with that so far. Because you deserve to have people that, uh, care about you... Too.

“A-and I know that... That if I asked, you would-- _care_ for me. Better than anyone. Better than I deserve, probably... But-- But I want that. You. To do that.” Jon’s ears are aflame with a deep red and his hands are shaking badly now, but his gaze into Martin’s eyes has such sincerity that Martin cannot look away. Martin hears his pulse in his ears and feels his heart thundering behind his ribs but he _cannot look away_. 

Jon raises a brow and gives a small tug on Martin’s hands, and Martin turns to liquid.

The smile that explodes on Martin’s face makes Jon’s eyes go wide. Martin scoops Jon’s hands into the air and pulls them swiftly to his chest. Jon, completely unprepared for the sudden movement, lets out a small yelp as Martin yanks his small frame across the table. 

“Oops!” Martin startles, cursing himself for forgetting how short Jon’s arms were. “S-sorry!”

Jon, with his chest splayed out over the table, looks up to Martin with beet-red cheeks and a brilliant smile, laughing quietly but with such childlike gaiety. So closely to him now, Martin can smell the sweet earl grey tea still lingering on his breath. Martin feels a stinging heat blaze across his cheeks and ears. Martin knows exactly how he feels about this man, even if he’s not ready to admit the words to himself yet. But he knows. 

Martin helps Jon gradually ease back into his seat, both of them still chuckling faintly. When Jon finally settles, Martin places both of Jon’s hands into one of his own. He leans forward slowly, and he uses his free hand to gather all of the loose strands of wavy silver and black hair that came tumbling out of Jon’s half-bun when he was snatched over the table. Martin twists it twice over his fingers and then gently tucks it behind Jon’s ear. 

“I’ll do my best. To care for you.” Martin says, letting his fingers linger for an extra second.

Jon is frozen in front of him, wide-eyed with blown pupils and slightly parted lips. The sides of his neck begin to flush that gorgeous deep red. 

When Martin places his hand lightly back on top of Jon’s, Jon visibly melts and replies in a tender voice:

“You already are.”

And they sit together in peaceful silence, hand-in-hand.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
